


Our Lonely Hours of Gold

by rewrittengirl



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Acephobia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Children, Asexual Character, Childhood, Children of Characters, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Drama, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Major Original Character(s), Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Parenthood, Prodigy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Single Parents, Twins, deafness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3942172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewrittengirl/pseuds/rewrittengirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik's life changes forever in 1869, when he meets his children for the first time. Raising a pair of rebellious twins underneath an opera house proves to be a challenging task, and when rumors start to rise about an "opera ghost" and he meets Christine, the woman he thinks will be his salvation, he struggles to hold on to the only family he has ever known. Meanwhile, the twins also struggle to find themselves, and figure out if they belong in the world above the house on the lake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Desire for Much, Hope for Little

**Author's Note:**

> Notes at the end of the chapters. The mature rating is partially for the sexuality, but it's also for the warnings that pertain to much later chapters, specifically the rape/non-con. It probably won't manifest until toward the end of the fic, I just thought it should be there for future reference. 
> 
> The title of the fic is a variation on a line from Juan Ramón Jiménez's poem "Remorse."
> 
> Throughout, there are links to images that flesh out the story, and I hope you enjoy!

 At the 1867 [_Exposition Universelle_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Exposition_Universelle_\(1867\)), Erik’s life changed forever. He stood there, in the middle of the crowd as they watched piece after piece of the facade come down, and the pale newborn building inched forth from behind, as if revealing itself in a surreal dream. Some of the crowd grew bored, others were required to stay for a certain time, those officials overseeing the task and the like. He might be the only one who continued to watch, until night fell, and the next days they continued until it was complete.

To Erik, it was a house he had indeed had many dreams about. It was the only thing that could ever make him feel smaller than he was, the building that finally loomed over him and promised him the pleasures of anonymity and grace. To be standing in front of it was a gift, and thus he could not imagine what joy it would bring him once the inside was complete.

The trouble was, he couldn’t imagine how he would enjoy being inside, when the plans of the building -- and especially the godforsaken auditorium -- were _completely deranged_. Of course, the outside’s bare skeleton was nicely finished so far, even beautiful in some places, though Erik attributed all the elegance to the master sculptors who facilitated the tributes to the gods of the arts. None of the brilliance was inspired by the insipid [Charles Garnier](http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/64096/864314/Flix_Nadar_1820-1910_portraits_Charles_Garnier.jpg).

Nevertheless, the crowd cheered when the last flesh colored board was chipped away, and only the startling white bones remained. It was August 15th, the day that would be forever etched onto Erik’s heart as “l'anniversaire de son esprit.” It was raining that day.

The thunder clapped above, but it did not stop a boxy camera man near to his side, flashing at the crowd and the building. In those days, Erik hid in plain sight, a younger man of thirty-six and still unwithered by time. The false nose fit better in those days, tinted black glasses hiding his unusual eyes that ridiculed even his own reflection. He neglected makeup on a rainy day, for fear of it washing away from the humidity. But then, everyone was peaked on a day like this. He, like others, was relieved from the rain by a black umbrella and a deep grey cloak. Darkened face, dark hair that had not yet been lost to age and stress, and a dark attitude characterized him. Underneath the turbulent sky, that darkness did not seem so peculiar. He was grateful, for he had to be there that day, even as he listened to Garnier make a grand speech demonstrating his loyalty to the Empire.

The crowd stayed long enough just so that the ragged haired man could step down from the podium, having said his piece about progress. Four men stayed, moving to the Rue Scribe side to discuss the plans of the building moving forward. One of these men, in fact, was Erik.

The architect assigned to the basements of the building, Erik held little interest in Garnier’s emphatic questions about the business above ground. His eyes drifted every so often to members of his crew, who were installing grating on this side of the building. A ramshackled crew member lost his balance on the slippery sidewalk and knocked his head against the black iron, only barely stunning him. Erik rolled his eyes.

_“No, no, you must lift with two people, insert the bar into the other slot…”_

“What do you think, Monsieur Dubois? A sabbatical in celebration while the fair is going on?”

Erik waved his hand in dismissal.

“I don’t think Jean-Paul could handle it, he is too distracted by your life’s work, Charles!”

One of the men, nimbly pried Erik’s umbrella from his fingers and skipped around the others, honking a disagreeable laugh. [His fellow architects](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Louis-Emile_Durandelle,_Charles_Garnier_in_the_Drafting_Room_While_Designing_the_New_Paris_Opera,_ca._1870.jpg) joined in unison, and even Garnier chortled. Erik stepped away, a growl leaping forth from his throat as he frantically covered his face with his arm.

“You’re a fine one to talk, _Jourdain_!” Without missing another beat, Erik just as deftly stole his umbrella back from him, and splashed all the men under their own umbrellas with its momentum. “The underlevels are almost complete, and still the auditorium's framing has not been completed! You would do better to be as consumed as I.”

Garnier wiped his soaked face with a kerchief, and said, “You are too serious, Jean-Paul. The workers will continue their craft while we stop to enjoy our accomplishments. Have you even been to the other exhibits so far?”

Bristling, Erik checked the time on a golden pocket watch. “I had hoped to survey the structure of the lake, today…”

The other architects continued to shake their portly heads at the slender gentleman, preparing to walk away. Charles alone stayed, resting a cautious hand on Erik’s leaning shoulder. “I’m going to go home to my wife, and tomorrow we hope you join us at Japanese pavilion. Afterwards, perhaps dinner? You could bring that lady friend of yours…”

Erik numbly nodded in agreement, a small, thin smile false in nature. Appeased, Charles waved goodbye and departed along the other side of the street. He continued to watch his fumbling workers for several moments, nearly stepping closer to help them, but his colleague’s words halted his measures.

Of course, there existed no “lady friend.” It had seemed beneficial at the time to conjure one out of thin air, pretending to live through the same milestones as other men his age, to prevent them from digging deeper into his sordid past. They had joked when he was first contracted that he did not have a wife, and later they worried it might be something peculiar. He had overheard conversations where they questioned his authenticity, his stories of studying masonry abroad in the Italy’s hills of romance. Those stories were so true that he felt personally offended that they did not believe him. Italy was the only part of his life that was known to all, and yet his experiences there did not match up to the most conquering of men. Perhaps he was _un tante_ , or even worse, a spy of the rebellious groups they’d been hearing about in the papers?

He touched a shaking hand to his slipping false nose. The rain had gotten to it, and it chafed his puckered skin.  Instead of defending his celibacy, he made up a woman who he thought might appease them, altering versions of their own sexual exploits to suit himself. It had worked so far because they had been simple enough to believe him, but he did not know how much longer they would continue to turn the other cheek.

Erik was so very tired of being considered abnormal. Once, the distance between and others had been a comfort, the power he held over them intoxicating. Returning to Paris had been a mistake, if he had wanted to keep that said power. Being considered the same and being treated the same were two very different beasts he was becoming aware of.

A whistling sound from the gates, that were finally starting to come together. A pair of women, attempting to rush home from the cold, flew past his workers underneath their shoddy umbrellas. Their skirts kicked up and grew soaked in mud and rainwater, and hints of their calves could be seen above their boots. Erik’s face flushed in both anger and embarrassment, and his pointed look at his crew certainly got their attention.

“If I see you slacking off again, you will work until dawn tomorrow morning, understood!?”

They stood at attention, but a few continued to watch the girls disappear into the distance. Erik called his most responsible overseer to him, and pressed thirty francs into his wet palms. “See to it they excel in their task for the day. I want the gate installed and tested with the horses by sundown, and then they may go… And… give them tomorrow off so that they may visit the Exhibition.”

His employee nodded vigorously and stuffed the bills into his pockets, already beginning to shout orders to the workers that immediately roused their spirits. Placing his wallet back into his coat pocket, Erik finally walked away from the building that was quickly becoming his mistress.

He did not want to return home. It was an empty reminder that no “lady friend” existed, that he had no guests to entertain or even servants to attend to his needs. Another man might be driven insane by the loneliness. He simply did his best to avoid it.

So Erik wandered, observing the facades of the fair’s pavilions that did not interest him, watching as happy couples, children and dogs raced away from them with glittering awe at sights they had never seen. They returned to the rain of Paris and might be changed forever, or they might be nothing but amused for the day. That is the way of Paris and it’s wonders.

For Erik, the day grew long, and suddenly his recollection was blurred, and he could not remember when night had begun, or when he found himself at the steps of the brothel. He only stood there, watching as the light of the streetlamps bounced in the reflected water, when rain disrupted it and when happy patrons stepped out into it. Disgruntled ones entered, and looked at him wondering why on earth he continued to stand, instead of join them in the euphoria they were to experience.

He marveled at their willingness, their desperation that equalled his own, but by comparison their bravery far outmatched his. He did not even know if this was right, only that it seemed the most logical course of action at the time. A leather-bound hand reached into his cloak, and when no patrons were outside for the briefest moment, he dislodged the hooked nose and glasses and stuffed them where the [mask](http://rumpelstiltskinned.tumblr.com/image/118644701577) had been. Erik deftly tied its silken sheen around his head without dropping his umbrella, and suddenly he was the specter he had always likened himself to. Inside and out.

Breathing deeply, he stepped inside the dimly lit glow of the brothel, shaking off his umbrella and closing it. Just like that, he became a patron.

Men and girls alike stared. He stared back, unaware that he had stopped breathing as he took in the site of young women barely clothed. A bare breast even hung from a blouse on a girl who looked like she had just been ravaged. His eyes beginning to flame, he almost stepped outside if it wasn’t for the door being filled behind him with new customers. The mysterious elephant in the room couldn’t turn back now. He stepped forward with every ounce of courage he had.

An elder woman with a shock of dyed red hair appeared by his side as he approached the bar counter. Her hands maneuvered to his chest as best they could, for being as tall as he was. He caught her wrists and stared in amazement that she would dare touch him.

“Easy now, love. I’m just taking your frock and parasol for you, eh?” Some patrons near laughed at her joke, but Erik was not.

Grimacing at her high pitched, scratching voice, he handed her his umbrella but stayed his hand against taking his coak. “This will not be necessary, I’m… quite cold-blooded.” The lady, with heart-shaped red lip paint and false beauty mark on her chin, made a face that contorted these make-ups into the folds of her wrinkles.

“Oh, I _see_! Well there are plenty of girls here who could… warm you up.” A suggestive penciled eyebrow raised, and sitting was all Erik could do to keep her traveling hand from running across his groin. The woman walked away but kept an eye on him as he ordered a cheap glass of wine.

It tasted as such too, but he continued to lift his mask veil and drink it. After giving those thirty francs to his overseer, the bulk of his money would have to be saved for… But he couldn’t possibly imagine what girl would approach him, and he lacked the tenacity to pluck one from her nest.

He sat there drinking without disturbance, no young woman engaging him just as he thought, until a clamour from behind shifted his intense glare at the bartender. A girl had just entered, soaked from the rain, and immediately the red woman scolded her tardiness. “Fifth time this month, Prissy!” she began, and under her breath she added, which only Erik could hear, “that’ll cost you tonight’s wages!”

Erik wouldn’t have continued to watch the pair, if it hadn’t been for the peculiarity of the newcomer’s head. She was young as the rest of them, but her hair was as white as _une grande dame_ , and from across the room he locked on her blood red eyes. Perhaps she noticed his sharp golden hues, because her mistress pointed to him, and again Erik was the only one who could understand her hushed whispers. “You take that masked fairy princess, cause he innit touching one of my pretty girls.”

Erik nearly choked on his drink. So that was why no one had approached him? Fear, of course it was fear. He looked to his knuckles clenching the counter, and understood completely. He should leave, he did not belong.

But before he could even pay the bartender, the mistress had whipped her girl’s coat off her shivering body and sent her scampering toward him. Almost instantly her demeanor changed, and she wrapped a hand over his stunned shoulder. He did not grab the foreign wrist this time.

“ _Bonsoir, chèr monsieur…_ ” she whispered coquettishly, and up close her eyes were even deeper than he thought. She smiled up at him, her small pale pink mouth devoid of makeup, in fact her entire face only colored by kohl from a previous night smudging her eyes. The blackness made everything else stand out all the more.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” he coughed, squeezing his legs together.

She took his glass of wine and swirled it, downing the rest of it in one gulp. A few red drops remained and stained her pigment-less mouth. Her hand slid down his arm as she set the glass down, taking his gloved hand and lifting him without much effort from his seat. He couldn’t have stayed seated if he tried. He followed her, up a short flight of stairs and into a bedroom that reeked of brandy and sweat. Kicking the door closed, she tugged off the gloves she held, finger by finger, until his bony pale hands appeared and took her wrists gently.

“What is your name?” he whispered in a kind of stalling the inevitable.

“Priscilla,” she said resolutely, despite her shock evident on her face. “Nancy calls me Prissy, but I don’t like it,” she smacked distastefully. “I never had anyone ask me that.” She took her wrists away and rubbed them, appalled at his cold flesh. “Come on then, what about you?”

Erik formed his mouth into the shape of an “e” but stopped himself short. “Jean…” he replied, neglecting the “ _Paul_.” He was beginning to sweat.

She rolled her eyes and made a noise of disapproval. “Sure, sure, whatever you say, _chèr_.” She grabbed his clothed arm and pulled him to the bed. Taking off his cloak and tossing it in a chair, she nudged him onto the edge of the mattress and straddled his waist.

Immediately, Erik’s entire body stiffened. She noticed and raked her hands down his chest, loosening his jacket and vest practically all at the same time. He gripped the crumpled sheets into his hands.

“Don’t touch the mask.”

“I wasn’t gonna…” She didn’t look up from her ministrations. Erik’s heart was bursting in his eardrums, speeding up even more when she neared his hips. “I know what it’s like, bein’ looked at funny.”

He looked down, at the sheer fabric of her dress folds, as it pooled over her thighs as white as the material. If not for the redness of her kohled eyes, she would be slight of an angel. “You’re very beautiful,” he said. He still would not touch her.

And yet she looked up, red eyes peering into gold. “What a stranger you are,” she muttered, and smirked as she pulled forth from his jacket the wealth of his wallet. He watched her as she demonstrated pulling forth one, two, three, eight large bills and pressed them into her cleavage. She slipped the wallet back into his jacket and pulled his entire top regalia off his body, leaving his chest exposed.

He thanked God that his mask covered his frightened face. His lips were trembling and his brow was so hot and contorted. She pressed her lips to his neck, and began her night’s work. Saying anything now for Erik was out of the question.

He had to remind himself constantly that making love to a woman was normal, that this was what other men did to occupy their time. If he didn’t then well, didn’t that make him that much more of a freak?

* * *

“You… BASTARD!”

A sharp pointed shoe was thrown at Erik’s back. He didn’t pay attention except for the sharpness, the patch of skin that flecked for being scraped which caused him pinpricks of pain. Pricks were nothing compared to how his entire body felt.

“You little freak! What’s _WRONG_ with you?!” she screeched. “Who doesn’t _enjoy_ sex?!”

He couldn’t press his palms closer to his ears, because the wetness of his tears made them slip and chafe. His sobs on the outside, the weeping and the shaking was not nearly as great as the aching in his bones.

Priscilla circled him in her gown that barely covered the form that had surrounded him, that had made him feel like a child, now with eyes flaming with anger. “How pathetic could you be? I thought you’d be a great fuck! Just for once I’d like a great fuck! The first customer I’ve had in weeks, and Nancy’d sooner throw me on a pike than send me a real animal, course she would! Look at you, crying! What are you crying for, are you an infant?! Get up! Get dressed and leave! Take your fucking money and leave!”

She threw the sweat-stained bills down at his knees, which were curled against his bare forehead. He’d taken off his mask before she could see, because he couldn’t stop losing every other breath because he was so hot, so stifling in his own body. He continued to moan, but curled his fingers around his money, and replaced the mask on his face.

His heavy clothes were thrown atop his shaking form. One by one, he fitted his shirt, vest, and jacket and buttoned the pants that had never come off. Priscilla began a tentative sob herself.

“God in all heaven, I hate it here… I can’t get anything but fairies to look at me.”

Erik lept up to his full height and wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. He still let tears fall under his mask, but did not break his gaze from her now quivering one. “Keep… the money that I owe you.”

He took out his wallet and drew every bill it contained and joined it with the eight bills, pressing it in her hands. “Leave, if you’re through with this place. Don’t give it to your mistress, and run.”

Still shaking, Erik turned and began his descent down the stairs. “Wait!” she said.

“I am sorry for taking up your time,” he responded.

“But… You can’t just… _Jean_!”

Patrons in the hallways and common area laughed at the barely dressed Erik, fleeing from the woman he’d just bedded. Nancy dragged Priscilla by pale hair down the stairs. “What have you done, girl?” she screeched, but at last she saw the money clutched in Priscilla’s shaking hands and gasped. Erik watched the show from the outside, now soaking wet from the rain. He dared not go back just for his umbrella, but he could not leave the girl, for better or worse.

Before Priscilla could register what was happening, Erik had strode back inside and tore the girl from Nancy’s thick-nailed grasp and pulled her outside, where he propelled her into a run.

Not far from the brothel Priscilla ran out of breath, and thus began to fall. Erik caught her before she could hit the wet pavement. “Mademoiselle!” he whispered. The girl’s teeth chattered, but Erik could hear her muttering loud and clear.

“I… I hate you.”

No one was following him. He doubted anyone would. Who would miss either of them? The freak prostitute and the freak patron… No, Nancy would not come after either of them, no matter how much money Priscilla still tightly clutched in her hands.

Erik walked in the rain until he was two arrondissements away, and located the nearest inn he could find. He settled Priscilla under the eaves, passed out and shivering. Sighing, Erik pulled the cloak from his shoulders and covered her white limbs, obscuring the money from view. Without giving her another glance he knocked loudly on the inn’s door and walked briskly away, into the rain and the humidity, and the humiliation that followed.

He waited behind a corner building and watched until Priscilla was carried inside by a couple who probably owned the place. Then, he disappeared into the night, to return home to the empty house that would now feel like a prison.

 _“Stop!”_ kept repeating in his mind. It was his voice, calling out from the thickness of her sex. She wouldn’t have stopped, not thrusting against him or laughing, if he hadn’t thrown her aside. He might have killed her, he realized soon after, which made his pain all the worse. His mind was spinning just as the whirlwind of the night, but there was one thing Erik knew resolutely, even then.

He would never make love to a woman again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are wondering why Erik reacted the way he did to his encounter with Priscilla, I am writing Erik as asexual as of right now (he will realize differently later, though it he is surprise to him what is sexuality really is). 
> 
> Also, I know it seems strange that Priscilla is so upset that Erik did not enjoy the sex. I'm not operating under the assumption that all prostitutes love sex, I know that some of them, especially in this time period, are forced into the work. However, Priscilla, as a character, is actually a nymphomaniac, so she's... pretty much in this line of work because of what it is. I hope that clarifies things.
> 
> The title of the chapter is the English translation of the quote Garnier used to summarize his winning design of the opera house, from the Italian poet Torquato Tasso.


	2. Origin of Love

From that day forth, until November 12th, 1869, Erik lived life completely devoted to his opera house. He never brought up his “lady friend” again, though Erik had never really thought, when he had entered the brothel, that he would find someone worthy there. But Charles did not ask, when the day after the incident his face had assumed that of a man in mourning.

He convinced his crew to finish the lower levels in record time, and thus was completely available to be used at Charles Garnier’s discretion. Finally, Erik was able to enter into Jourdain’s domain and renovate that botched excuse for an auditorium. It took over a year to reverse what the amateur architect had done to Garnier’s passable design, and only a month or two for Erik to improve upon it in secret.

In secret he also began his own life’s work: building a house that lay just beyond the Rue Scribe side gate. The lake had been a true gift, an area no one in the opera dared go, merely for the hassle it posed. It was a place fit for vermin, nightmares, ghosts and monsters. Erik figured a freak would fit right in for the rest of his life.

He never saw Priscilla again. He passed by the inn where he left her as little as possible, but he did not think she stayed there. If anything, she had probably gone back to the brothel, with no where else to turn to. In any case, it was why, on that fateful date of November 12th, he was shocked when an elderly woman approached him.

It was night, and he was masked. His business was not related to the opera that day, but to Persia. He had come from a hookah lounge and smelt of musty odors, and his mind was filled with the old friend who had dragged him to it. The Daroga had finally found him (after years of hiding under what the police chief thought was a false name), and sought not retribution, but company. They had a night full of reminiscing, discussing Erik’s future plans, and the Daroga officially declaring that he would be living in Paris to keep an eye on him. Erik thought his insistence… cute, if not needed. The former trap-door lover was not a murderous man anymore, and just wanted to be left alone.

Thus, on his walk home from the lounge, his annoyance was made quite clear when the woman spoke his name. “Monsieur Jean?”

He found it strange that it was only the first part, and not even a voice he recognized. He turned and saw the woman, fair haired and bespectacled, but with a face he did know very well. Hers and her husband’s face had been embellished on his memory for over two years, but he couldn’t possibly imagine what she had to say to him.

“Yes…” he responded tentatively. “Who are you?” He need not reveal his familiarity so soon.

She gripped his hand, a wide smile on her kindly face. Underneath his mask Erik’s face turned to a snarl, but she would not be able to see. “Oh, my heavens! Thank the Lord I found you!”

The woman took no time in wrapping her arm through his and swinging him in the opposite direction of the street. For an elderly woman, she was surprisingly strong, though he hadn’t put up much of a fight. “My name is Mme. Blanchard. I hope you don’t mind, but I would like you to come with me. I have been looking for you for a very long time! I wasn’t sure it was you at first, my only frame of reference was a _barbe du masque_ and an imposingly cut figure, but when you answered to your name I was sure of it! My, Mlle. Prissy was certainly right about you!”

His worst fears confirmed. She was indeed the owner of the inn, whose face he’d seen only briefly in the rain but was able to pick out so easily here.

Erik was being taken to Priscilla.

“Ha… ha… Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name, so if you’ll excuse me it is late, and I must be getting home, my… my… butler will be worried about me?” He hadn’t meant to finish the phrase as a question, but it’s lack of truth was hard to mask.

“Now, now don’t worry. Prissy told me all about her past, and I know such a fine gentleman like you wouldn’t want to come into any trouble. I’m not here to bring you scandal, sir. I’d just like you to come with me.”

Erik walked stiffly, afraid to break away from the woman for her grip was tighter than he expected. As much as he disliked the situation, he had a hard time wishing the old lady harm. She led him around corners he remembered distantly, until finally the glowing lantern hanging from the eaves that he’d rested the escort under caused him to shiver with deja vu. Only, the night was as dry as that August day was wet. The stars gleamed above them, and his heart was not heavy. Somehow, even before he stepped inside, it was full.

A few minutes later Erik found himself sitting at a cramped kitchen table, as the lady of the house fixed him a small cup of tea. “Cream?” she asked. He said no. “Sugar?” she asked again, and again he said no. No to this entire situation, which was turning into a bizarre fantasy that he didn’t belong. There had been no cause for this, no build up of unpleasant emotions like there had been two years before. He was just having a regular day, and suddenly he would have to pay for consequences he caused two years ago.

“Where is she?” he asked. The tea sat black as the woman placed the kettle back on the stove. “She is here, is she not then? If she wants to speak with me, then she should do so, and let me get on with my life.”

Mme. Blanchard, adjusting her glasses and giving him a solemn smile, sat beside him and again took his hands. Strange, this woman who showed no hesitance in touching his chilling form.

“My dear Jean… If I may call you Jean, I’m afraid I do not know your last name.”

Erik thought for a moment, then shook his head. There was no point in lying now. “My name is not just Jean, it is Jean-Paul. Jean-Paul Dubois. I never gave Priscilla my real name.” Real it was, though it seemed false to even himself. He could never refer to himself as Jean-Paul, though it was his father’s name, and his grandfather’s name before him. Erik was the anonymous, origin-less name he’d earned, though it was not one he’d wish his public relations learned.

“That’s fine, very fine.” She paused, heaving a great sigh that seemed to come from grief. “Monsieur Dubois, I am so sorry I must be the one to tell you this. Mlle. Priscilla died well over a year ago.”

A lump grew in the back of Erik’s throat. He sat back in his chair, and to prevent himself from speaking he took the cup of tea and drank it straight and hot. It scalded his tongue, but he found he still had the vocal capacity to gasp.

“I know you did not know each other very well, but Prissy, that’s what we called her, you see, she spoke of you quite often actually. Made up fanciful stories about you to tell to the other maids. That’s what she was, until she died, a maid here. She likened you to a prince to the others, but I knew the whole story. She told me of your… business relationship when we found her that night in the rain, and that if anything were to happen to her, she wanted me to tell you of it. That is, what _happened_.”

“She’s dead…” It didn’t matter, she was right. It didn’t matter that they only met once. Priscilla had become something of a myth in Erik’s mind, an event that had changed his life forever. It was not until hours later that he would understand just how much.

“Yes, I know how it feels. My poor Armand was lost earlier this year, from the drink. I think I get on much better without him, but don’t tell that to my staff! They’d stage quite the coup against me! You see Armand was very friendly with--”

“Please, spare me the details. Just… Tell me… what happened?”

“What happened? Why I just told you--”

“I mean, how did she die? Was it…”

A disease, one of the flesh, no doubt. He looked down to his own legs, and wondered if his life was really so valuable after all. Perhaps he hadn’t realized it, that there was an invisible demon building up underneath his skin.

His trailing off made it clear what he was talking about. But the woman puffed a dry laugh and patted his hand affectionately. “Heavens, no! It wasn’t anything like that.”

Relaxing, Erik raked a hand through his dark hair. When he pulled it away, a tuft of it was lodged between his fingers. Luckily the old lady’s eyes were closed as she sipped her own cup of tea, so he let the hair fall to the floor. He cleared his throat and brought the tea to his lips again as she continued.

“No, my dear, Priscilla died... a few days after childbirth.”

Erik could not help himself choking this time on his drink. Mme. Blanchard got up and kept slapping his back, but his coughing did not subside until he drank some tea again. Only when he remembered her words, he practically gagged it back up.

Of course his immediate reaction was that the offspring was his. After all, the last time he saw her was just after they had intercourse. But this was ridiculous, she could have done so with a number of gentlemen after him, or before! Erik shook his head.

“I assure you, Madame, whatever child she had could not have been mine.”

“Oh yes, they’re definitely yours. That’s why I brought you here, my dear. She told me to tell you, before she died, that you were the father and that there was no one else. She seemed adamant about it. I can tell she must have taken a liking to you!”

Wrong, wrong… How further that statement could be from the truth. “Her last words to me were ‘I hate you,’ Mme. Blanchard.”

The woman’s face fell, and she sat back down beside him. “Oh… well… that’s over with now, isn’t it? The point is, they’re yours, and it would be nice if--”

“Wait.” He stayed her speech, sitting up at attention. His head had been hung in his hands prior, in absolute horror. “You’ve been saying ‘they.’ _They_?”

Her smile grew back. “Yes, twins! A beautiful pair, a boy and a sweet girl. Their coloring doesn’t quite match, but they do look similar. I must confess, it was  your eyes that made me sure you were the one! Little Astrid’s are that same unusual color, a golden hue.”

The lady stood and dusted off her skirts. “I’ll go and get them for you, I’m sure they’re anxious to meet their father!”

She disappeared through the doorway. And Erik was left panicking.

He could just walk out the front door. Or there was a window in the kitchen, he was nimble enough to climb out, if he didn’t want to make a scene about it. He couldn’t make up his mind, because he couldn't breathe properly. In fact, one might say he was hyperventilating, but he could easily be dying, as well. Surely that was the case, and it was all a dream that would be swiftly silenced by the expanse of nothingness.

Erik paced in a small circle around the kitchen, and his quick movements were the only thing keeping him from fainting when Mme. Blanchard returned, carrying in her arms two terribly small beings who might quite possibly be his children.

The same heart that beat so loudly when they were conceived beat just as loudly as he laid eyes on them for the first time. He backed away, into the kitchen sink as she came near. He shook uncontrollably, and wanted to repeat that phrase “stop” that had echoed in his mind for years.

She did not force them on him, merely let him look. They were both sleeping on her shoulders, but one was starting to wake. This one had very [light yellow hair, soft and hanging in short curls](http://www.taylorandersonphoto.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/party-kosta-hanson-hochstedler-513edit.jpg). It opened its eyes and looked straight into his, and he saw nothing but gold.

“Astrid,” her name on his lips, not spoken aloud but she seemed to register that he called her, for she drew herself up in Mme. Blanchard’s arms and reached her hands toward him. His chest withdrew further over the sink, his knuckles white against the counter.

The other child continued to slumber. His hair was a very [dark brown, falling in waves](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/0703/autumnfae/MyBoys/2478.jpg) much like his own, but almost caught red in the light. He remembered reading somewhere that albinism was not a trait that could be passed by genetics, so their disparate colorings were not strange. Their mother could scarcely be found in their appearance. However…

His eyes drew back to the girl, who continued to smile at him and beg for him to hold her. “She…” Erik could feel tears forming in his eyes. “She looks like my mother.”

Indeed, he remembered that hair falling in spirals from Nathalie’s head. He remembered her brushing it, a folding of gold that he likened to Jason’s magical fleece as a child. And “little Astrid” had the eyes to match.

“And I’m sure Nicholas is just as handsome as his own father, isn’t he?”

Mme. Blanchard could not know how ironic her statement was. He almost choked on words that he had not said. “I have… a skin condition…” he said, in lieu of the truth. “That is why I wear the mask.”

She dipped her head in response. “None of my business, of course.”

It would have been her business, if these blushing infants had been noseless, or yellowed in skin. But their heart shaped faces were perfect cherubs, not a blemish could be found. His entire life, he had thought if he were to reproduce, they would look like the spawn of a monster. No, they were images of angels. 

Erik’s heart continued to pound in his chest, but his breathing was almost non-existent. He wondered how he was still alive. “Nicholas… and Astrid.”

The woman smiled. “Yes, monsieur. The girl was born first, the boy about twenty minutes after, on May 17th, 1868. Thought that’s something you should know. Priscilla gave him his name, after her father, but Astrid was named by another of our maids who no longer works here. She and Priscilla were quite close, almost like sisters, and helped to take care of them for a little while. She said when she saw the girl’s golden eyes she thought of starlight.”

At the sound of her name, Astrid attempted to jump forth from Mme. Blanchard’s arms. Instinctively, and quite without his consent, Erik caught her much like he had her mother years ago, in the rain. He gasped at his own actions, and held her away from him at first, unsure of the correct procedure. It only dawned on him after she’d settled herself snugly against in his arms that he was holding his daughter.

“Papa!”

Her little voice rang out, and held his attention fast in her small, toddler’s gaze. Mme. Blanchard seemed stunned. “She’s never said that before… I never taught it to her. She’s very talkative, compared to her brother, but I have no idea…”

He looked at Nicholas, the child only just beginning to wake up from his deep slumber. The babe glanced briefly in his direction, and his eyes were as dark as his hair. Erik, again instinctively, stepped forward and touched his forehead, brushing aside his locks. “You want me to take them, don’t you?”

Mme. Blanchard sighed. “I know this is quite a lot to take in, I do admit that if it were up to me, I would keep them myself. They’re like… well they’re like my own children! But you see, the business just isn’t what it used to be, and I’m afraid I don’t have enough money to keep supporting them. It’s why I never had ones of my own, you see.”

 _“Mine… they are mine…”_ He knew this to be the truth, despite all odds.

“I see.” Without blinking, and without looking at Mme. Blanchard’s puffed features, Erik gently took Nicholas in his other arm and held the twins against his chest. “Please gather their things.”

The woman was put off by his command. Erik, on the other hand, rose to his full height, as he often did to assert his dominance. “ _Now_ , Mme. Blanchard.”

Immediately she scurried away. He’d used the voice of a lord, or even a king. One that was a far cry from the simpering buffoon he’d been when told he had children. Now that they were not just children, but _his_ , it was easier to do what he needed to.

When he left, he paid Mme. Blanchard all the money he had in his wallet, for compensation for her troubles. In part, it was mostly for the memory of Priscilla, who he wondered numbly, as he carried their twins toward his finished underground home, if she would have cared for them at all, had she lived. Would he ever know of their existence? He thought, perhaps not. Good riddance, Priscilla.

Though his rooms underneath the opera had been finished, he realized he would have to build another. A room with two small cribs, with enough space to fit two small beds, then two large beds eventually. He supposed, if there was enough room in his heart, there would be room in the opera for them.

Nicholas and Astrid. Names that suited them, surely, but Astrid was such a peculiar one. The peculiar child would not sleep, only repeated in a cooing voice “papa” as they walked along. Her brother lay asleep on his shoulder, the quietest child who he’d come across. So his sister had to keep their father’s attention. “Astrid,” he repeated back to her, and it felt strange on his tongue, a name impossible to shorten, unlike Nicholas. He already began to call the little boy “Nicki” in his mind.

But whoever that maid was who had named his daughter, she was right. As he walked his children down the street that night, with no idea of the future that lie ahead, he looked from Astrid’s eyes to the sky. In both views he was bathed in starlight.

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope your heart is literally melting right now. Because mine is.


End file.
